My Kind of  Whatever
by ronny-of-yore
Summary: Dean laments a certain life-choice even though he knows he'll never do a damn thing to change it and Sam... Well, Sam's used to Dean's erratic bursts of denial. Besides,he's already set up a game-plan. Cracky Wincest


**My Kind of … Whatever**

There comes a time in every man's life when he finds himself sitting back and wondering: _just_ _what in the hell am I doing?_ Sitting at a back table, in Ruso, Arkansas's Red Wing's Bar and Grill, Dean Winchester is currently doing that very same thing. Staring at his huge, little brother, overtop the idiot's opened laptop, Dean's eyeing the slant of Sam's beady little eyes, his brother's wide, 70's style sideburns, too-long, girly hair, huge nose, erratically mole-speckled skin, and the Frankenstein-ish jut of his forehead with curled-lip, nostril-flared disdain. (No. His version of Sam isn't biased at all. Thanks for asking.)

_Why?_ He's asking himself as he furiously knocks back the rest of his beer. _For fuck's sake, why the hell am I going home with this friggin asshat and not Big-Tits McGee by the door or Blowjob-Lips McShane over there by the friggin counter? Fuck! What the hell's the matter with me? How the hell can I be attracted to this friggin thing!_

Yes, _thing,_ because Dean doesn't even know what to call it anymore. No way can it be a chick or dude. At least, not in Dean's mind, because — other than the fact that he still can't get over actually liking the feel of male ass, the taste of cock or, you know, that they're brothers — it whines and nags like a girl yet in no way does it have a pussy. He's checked. (Several times.) After all, if it did, it would make sex with it so much friggin easier! (He could just slide inside without spending half the time caught up in prep. …Selfish bastard.)

Oh, but it's also been known to pull off some pretty cool John McClane (Hello, Die Hard!) style shit: jumping from burning buildings, saving people's asses, even saving his own bacon once or twice. However, that all tends to get completely ruined every time the huge fucker wants to friggin cuddle after sex. Dean Winchester does not cuddle! At least, not with things that lack soft curves and squishy chest-pillows to lay on and fondle to his little heart's content.

The fucker has no tits and Dean Winchester likes breasts! So, once again, he finds himself having to ask: _just what in the hell am I doing with this sorry friggin bastard?_

"You know," the one half hidden behind his laptop idly speaks up as he continues to surf the web, "you don't have to come back with me if you don't want to, Dean."

Even with questions and doubts bouncing around in his head — Ha! — like Dean's going to fall for that crap-trap. That's basically the equivalent to it asking, "Do these pants make my butt look fat," because there's just no right answer to that shit. (He learned that the hard way with Lisa.) If Dean says, "Alright. Don't wait up," and goes and does some chick, hard and dirty, in one of the bathroom stalls, who knows what crazy shit he'll come back to once he gets his rocks off? His clothes could be burning in the Impala (yeah, shouldn't have watched Waiting To Exhale), his bed might end up going up in flames with him still in it (or The Burning Bed … damn Lifetime channel) or, you know, he could come back and find it crying into its pillow all alone in the dark. They're all equally things that would pretty much kill him dead.

…_Shut it_.

So, Dean doesn't get up and say, "Alright. Later, bitch," but neither does he sit there and say anything to the flipside, because that would be totally succumbing to and admitting his messed up feelings for it and Dean Winchester does _not_ do chick flick moments … even though he secretly likes to watch them. (You know, when it's out of the room or asleep in its bed.) Also, _what the friggin hell_? Why the fuck doesn't he want to go trolling for anonymous booty anymore? Tits and pussy, dammit! Tits and pussy! Not whatever the hell this thing has! …Seriously! What the fuck is wrong with him?

"Where're you going?"

Dean doesn't spare it a glance as he gets up and makes a beeline for the bar, but he does say four words over his shoulder, before he starts to make his way through the crowded tables. "I need a drink."

Actually, he's going to need five. Shots that is. Straight tequila, because, seriously, what the fuck? Even after so many nights of stripping it naked and pumping it full of … whatever, Dean suddenly just can't understand how the hell he ended up sticking his dick in it in the first place.

_How in the friggin hell did this shit happen?_

Sam watches Dean go with a shake of his head. That's the third time this week Dean's had that irritated, freaked out, stupid look on his face, like he doesn't know what he's looking at or what they've been doing behind closed doors … or backseats … or wherever else Sam had gotten Dean hard enough to shut up the screaming voices in his brother's head long enough to let him ride his cock like he's suddenly always wanted to do. Yeah, getting all the pieces of his soul back did some strange things to him. (But Dean's a great lover, once Sam finally gets him into it. So, he's not complaining. …Much.)

Of course, they only started this new thing between them last week, after Sam had finagled the idiot into his bed by saying (when he was drunk) that he sleeps better with Dean beside him. (They'd first fallen asleep on his mattress, after having shared a box of pizza and a bottle of whiskey while watching Die Hard 4 … again. Hey, it was Dean's birthday.)

True. Sam's not so proud of the fact that he's twenty-nine and still plays the little brother card occasionally, but, hey, it works. Besides, it's not his fault that, underneath all that false machismo, Dean's nothing but a foul-mouthed, big-hearted softy — especially when it comes to him. (At this thought, Sam can't help but smile and feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy. …Sue him.) As for Dean, in the end, the guy had crumbled, like crushed Double Stuffed Oreo cookies.

To be honest, Sam's confession hadn't exactly been a lie, because Dean's familiar warmth — yeah, Mr. Macho's such the sleep-cuddler — had kept his nightmares of hell away that night. And … it hadn't really been Sam's fault that his hand had ended up having a mind of its own then as well. He hadn't told it to find its way into Dean's boxers. It just sort of … did. But, hey, it's not like Dean told him to get his hands off him or tried to yank it out either. To put it bluntly, the guy hadn't done squat. Dean had more or less laid there — stiff as a board, completely freaked out, and having completely faked being asleep — until the avid rock of his hips had pretty much called his bluff.

Yep. Utterly slaves to their cocks at that point, they ended up rutting against and coming all over each other that night, which led to fantastic sex the following morning. You know, after Dean got over his initial wigged-out episode once Sam showed him how that waitress in Hoboken — three years ago — had nothing on his mouth.

So, yeah, Sam wishes Dean would get over his homophobic relapses and just be warm for his form twenty-four seven. However, he's not stupid. Sam knows he has to give his brother some time to get used to their new transition. After all, Dean realizing he's actually bisexual is one thing. Add in the fact that he enjoys banging his hot (Sam likes to think so) little brother? That's a huge mouthful to swallow … even for a loose-moraled Dean.

But Sam's ok with that, because, he'll just have to remind Dean why going home with him tonight is the best idea ever. Really, it is, because, seriously, does he know how to handle him some cock now. If his soulless self did anything right — besides beefing up his body — in one year, he'd packed their shared mind so chalk full of sexual experiences that Sam normally would have snubbed his nose at. (It's just kind of ironic — not really — how all the guys his robo-self ended up fucking around with had all looked something similar to Dean.)

Yep. After another pull of his beer, Sam grins at the CNN webpage he's been quietly perusing. Dean's lingering denial can be a real pain in the ass. But sometimes — just sometimes — it can be all kinds of fun too. After all, there's nothing like watching a freaked out, drunken Dean squirming underneath his sinful touch. Evil you say? Sorry. Sam prefers the term diabolical, thank you very much.

**[xx]**

_45 Minutes Later_

"Sam—Sammy, what're you—? Jesus Chr—!"

_Oh yeah,_ Sam smugly thinks as he quickly shuts Dean up with a deep lick into his brother's mouth and squeezes his little-Dean with the hand he just shoved down the front of the guy's pants. All over the front seat of the Impala and having way too much fun watching his big brother squirm as he completely molests him within an inch of his life , Sam doesn't even care that the drunken, brooding bastard hasn't even closed his door yet or that, in his apparent shock, he'd dropped his keys somewhere beneath the seat. Nope. And who really gives a shit if those two heckling grandmas somewhere out there and that one barking dog is their audience dejour? They're all that's left in the bar's parking lot anyway.

And they'll go away … eventually. Sam just hopes they don't call the cops, until after he's had his chance to get his ass prints on the inside of the windshield and ride Dean's cock like a bucking bronco. Yeah, Sam's what one might call a very giving little brother. After all, all his life … he's always loved Dean the best.

And Dean? Besides deciding to call his huge little brother 'monster' instead of 'it,' admittedly Dean's always loved Sam the best … even if he's still having some serious trouble admitting it.

"Sam, what the f—?"

"Shut up, Dean, and just enjoy the damn ride."

And because he actually has some seriously messed up, squishy feelings for the sorry bastard, Dean finally shuts up and does.

_~Fin_


End file.
